Lean On Me
by HappyChaos3D
Summary: BUABS tag based on a EO drabble of mine. While Sam is consumed with guilt over what he did while possessed, Dean tries to hide his bullet wound since Sam can't remember that part. They try to recover on their own, until Dean suddenly falls violently ill.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This story is Mad Server's fault. While I had always wanted to write a tag to BUABS, I figured there were already enough tags out there that are far better than what I could ever write so I may as well focus on different writing projects. Anyway, in lieu of writing a full length tag to BUABS, one of my favorite episodes, I decided to write a drabble instead for Endiku07 and Onyx Moonbeam's drabble challenges (graze). And then, dear sweet Mad Server just _had_ to say the magic words in her review (the words being "fevered Dean") and so my muse went "Tough cookies Deana, you're writing that tag after all, and there will be hurt, fevered Dean and tons of Sam angst because, I, your fabulous muse say so!" And then as I started writing it, the plot bunnies attacked so the extended version of my drabble that I only intended to be a one shot sort of morphed into a longer multi-chaptered fic because well, my fingers got carried away with all the typing and before I knew it I realized there is just too much to fit into one chapter alone. I'm forecasting about five altogether and since it's almost finished well then if all goes well this'll hopefully be completed before the new episode airs. Anyway, thank you Mad Server, this one's for you!

Oh and uh, Happy Birthday Jensen Ackles, without whom we may have never seen the awesomeness that is Dean Winchester. That guy is seriously one of the most underrated actors in the biz. A Dean by any other actor would not be as awesome.

Disclaimer: "Supernatural" is not mine and blah, blah, blah… I own nothing. Just the DVD's and a ticket to the Vancouver convention (I am _so_ excited btw!)

Spoilers: Just "Born Under A Bad Sign" and anything that precedes it.

"I asked for a car and got a computer, how's that for being born under a bad sign?" Ferris Bueller. (Quote has nothing to do with this story but that line increased in hilarity tenfold since I discovered and later became unhealthily obsessed with, "Supernatural" and started seeing "Supernatural" every where I go. Just thought I'd share)

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**Lean On Me**

By Deana W.

Chapter One

Sam was exhausted, though considering his body had been hijacked for a little over a week by the demon Meg, that was probably to be expected. Now that Meg was finally gone, along with the demonic power that allowed Sam's body to have the strength to keep moving despite its biological need for rest, Sam was well and truly spent. He felt like he could sleep for another week.

He looked over at his brother and frowned at the cuts and colorful bruises on his face and the way he held his left arm close to his chest. Sam couldn't remember everything, only the bits and pieces he was awake for, but he hated to know that he had obviously hurt his brother. Knowing Dean, he probably let him beat the crap out of him, because fighting back, even for his life would mean hurting Sam.

He shuddered at the memory of his voice telling Dean he'd live to regret not killing him and then pistol whipping him, knocking him out before setting off to go after Jo. During the conversation that preceded it, he desperately wanted to scream, "It's Meg! It's Meg!" and he used all the energy he had to still his hand when Meg went to hit him, and when Dean went down every fiber of his being wanted to kneel beside him and make sure he was all right, or at least position him so he'd be comfortable.

But he couldn't. He hated being powerless at the hands of Meg. He hated that his body was bent to her will, not his. He hated being a passenger in his own body.

It was shortly after he knocked Dean out cold that he shut down completely and surrendered. That was the last thing he remembered before he woke to agonizing pain as Bobby broke the sigil branded on his arm that had locked Meg inside him.

His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like it was growing fuzz and it stuck to the top of his mouth and it made his gut wrench with nausea. Meg's hasty exit from his body left a foul residue in his mouth and he could still taste her evil essence. It was a vile taste. It was like some rodent had crawled in there while he slept and died, decomposing on his tongue. And he still reeked of sulfur. He just couldn't rid himself of that wretched taste and smell. And his skin itched and tingled. He felt as though he was covered in ants and nothing he could do could ease his irritation.

He wished that they just stayed the night at Bobby's to recuperate. But Dean wanted to go, keep moving. At the time Sam did too, he couldn't look the old man in the eye after his transgressions. But now, all Sam wanted was a long hot shower to clean himself of everything Meg. He knew that it was futile though. Sam felt violated, impotent and he knew that a long hot shower would not be enough to wash the blood that Meg put on his hands. Nor would a good night sleep relieve him of his bone-deep exhaustion.

In the driver's seat Dean had become eerily silent after half-heartedly joking about Sam having a girl inside him all week. They shared a weak, empty laugh that did little to cure the tension that threatened to suffocate them both. Sam knew Dean only meant to make light of a bad situation, in a weak attempt to cheer Sam up. But Sam wasn't in the mood for joking. Sam could tell that Dean wasn't really in the mood for joking either, but inappropriate humor was his way of coping and Dean had been beat to hell by Sam's own hands so Sam kept his mouth shut.

His mind however wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up because Dean had no idea what it was like, what he went through. He wanted to snap at him so badly that restraining himself like that ironically felt a little like being possessed all over again. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, but this time it was because he didn't want to hurt Dean any more than he had already. The dichotomy of conflicting urges and emotions within him threatened to tear him apart. At least Sam was in control this time, but he was barely keeping it together.

If he could only rid himself of that sulfuric stench, of that foul, putrid taste in his mouth and the feeling of tiny invisible insects crawling all over his skin, then maybe he'd be able to relax and feel more like himself again. Maybe he'd be able to move on from his ordeal.

Dean's silence was beginning to bother Sam. Sam wondered if perhaps Dean was angry with him and was giving him the silent treatment. But then Sam realized that Dean could very well be silent for the same reason Sam was. Dean had been through a lot too and not just because of the cuts and bruises and whatever injuries, if any, Dean was hiding. Dean had to have been going out of his mind when Sam disappeared, and then again when he came back and Meg messed with his head, letting him think Sam was Sam and that he killed Steve Wandell in cold blood. Letting him believe that Sam had gone darkside and needed Dean to kill him. They both had a lot to think about, sort out though their heads before any talking could happen.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned against the passenger side window and tried to give in to the exhaustion that weighed him down but he just couldn't get comfortable. His skin itched, and he wanted to squirm and scratch. He wanted to vomit and relieve his persistent nausea. He had the nagging urge to scream, to cry, to punch something, to grab the wheel and swerve the Impala into oncoming traffic. But he didn't. Instead he sat there, squirming just a little as he tried and tried in vain to get comfortable.

Finally giving up, he opened his eyes again and looked at his brother intently. Really looked. Past the bruises and lines of pain that blinded Sam with guilt and self-loathing. He studied his brother and wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He focused on trying to see past the heavily guarded wall Dean had built up around himself a long, long time ago.

Dean looked defeated, exhausted and angry, but there was something else, something Sam couldn't put his finger on. Betrayal? He couldn't tell, but the guilt in Sam's heart made Sam's gut wrench.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer."

Sam startled at the wry comment that broke the oppressive silence. He composed himself quickly and shook his head gently, "Sorry. I was just thinking maybe we should stop somewhere. We're both exhausted and I think…"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly, "you look beat."

"So do you," Sam murmured. _In more ways than one._ "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Shut up." Sam wasn't sure how to interpret Dean's tone. He didn't _sound_ angry, but he didn't sound forgiving either. There was emptiness, exhaustion and feigned sarcasm. It seemed as though Dean were _trying_ to keep the overall atmosphere light and normal, like what went down wasn't such a big deal, but he was failing miserably at it. Again though, Sam wasn't sure.

The car was awkwardly silent again and Sam closed his eyes, still having a difficult time getting comfortable but feeling tired enough that if he kept his eyes closed, ignored the constant irritation and taste and smell of all that was Meg, he might be able to doze off a bit before they stopped. As he leaned against the window he wished that he could remember what happened, but it was like waking up from a week long coma, and remembering only the occasional nightmare. His memories of the past week were vague and choppy and yet what he did remember was more vivid than he'd like them to be.

He could remember watching Steve Wandell die at his hand, and he wished he couldn't. He remembered driving a car that he must've stolen, but wasn't sure where he was going. He remembered begging Dean to kill him, to put him down like Old Yeller, and hearing Dean's reply of, "I'd rather die." He remembered telling Dean just before knocking him unconscious, "You'll live. You'll live to regret this." He couldn't remember anything that happened after he knocked Dean out. He shut himself down after that and gave up fighting Meg for control. But between that and 'waking up' at Bobby's, he did recall brief, vague flashes of… something. His mind conjured up a pier, a long stretch of road, a bar, and a blonde with her back turned that he could only assume was Jo considering Dean's brief recap of what happened.

Dean's recap was so frustratingly vague that it did very little to fill in the blanks. He tried to reach into his memories and figure out just what happened for himself, what those brief images meant, what he had done to Dean, but he couldn't. He actually wasn't sure if he really, truly wanted to remember, but he felt he needed to know of his crimes so if anything, he could work to make amends.

Sam was just on the verge of finally drifting off when the car suddenly swerved and the terrain suddenly felt rough and uneven. Sam jumped, opening his eyes. "What the…? Dean!"

In the driver's seat Dean was slumped to the side, his eyes closed, his face slack and his hands were barely on the steering wheel. He looked like he had just simply passed out, though whether from exhaustion or injury, Sam wasn't certain. The car was now driving along the shoulder of the road, threatening to veer into the steep ditch.

"Dean!"

Quickly, Sam grabbed the wheel and steered it so it wouldn't go over and worriedly nudged his brother.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, confused, but only for a brief instant. His eyes widened in recognition. "Shit!" he hit the brakes and let the car stop on the side of the road.

"What just happened?" Sam demanded, anger and worry lacing his tone, only serving to prove how on edge he was.

Dean rested his forehead in his right hand and shook his head, wincing, "I don't know. I guess I'm just tired, y'know? I haven't slept in days. Plus you throw a wicked punch there, dude."

Sam flinched at the innocent jibe, but Dean didn't seem to even notice. "Maybe I should take over and drive."

Shaking his head wearily, Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, his right hand unconsciously going to his left shoulder, "Nah. Not much further to go," Dean promised, resting his head on the steering wheel, cushioned by the fingers of his left hand that had a firm white knuckled grip at the twelve o'clock position on the steering wheel. "I saw a sign, there's food, gas and lodging at the next exit."

In the pale light of the stars overhead and the occasional glare of headlights as cars zoomed past, Dean's face, where it wasn't marred by cuts and bruises, looked ashen and white—almost ghostly. His eyes fluttered and rolled for a second before he finally blinked, sat up and pressed his palms into his eyes.

"Are you…?"

"Sam, I'm fine!" Dean snapped, "Stop asking me if I'm OK. You're like a broken record."

Sam frowned and turned away. While Dean was correct in his assumption of Sam's question, he had purposely refrained from asking, knowing Dean hated the attention and fearing that if he asked, for once Dean would admit to not being fine and revealing the extent of the injuries Sam inflicted upon him. Sam had a sinking suspicion that Dean was worse off then he let on, though he hoped that maybe Dean was telling the truth about being fine save the superficial injuries that Sam could see. But Dean spoke as though Sam had been pestering him all night when he hadn't. That wasn't a good sign at all. It meant that Dean was on edge as well, and definitely in pain and probably anticipated that simple question all night even though he had obviously been trying to hide his discomfort.

"Actually that was my first time asking," Sam muttered quietly.

"Well the way you've been staring at me like you just ran over my dog and don't know how to break the news, it sure has felt like you've been pestering me like that," Dean griped, this time pinching the bridge of his nose then running his hand down his face.

"Well you look like shit and I know it's my fault, what do you want me to do?" Sam mumbled.

Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated, "Don't start Sam."

"What?"

"The self-pitying guilty act!" Dean snapped, "You were possessed, it wasn't your fault."

Sam sighed dramatically, and looked out the window at the starry sky. He felt his stomach rumble with nausea and he wrapped his arm across his belly to quell the urge to vomit. Damn, if he could just get rid of that fucking sulfuric smell, and that wretched taste and itching, tickling sensation all along his flesh, maybe he'd feel better. Meg may have vacated the premises, but she left her mark, and not just in the form of the painful burn on his arm—and that was beginning to nag at him now that the painkillers he took at Bobby's was beginning to wear off. The last thing he needed was for Dean to yell at him for feeling bad about what happened, even if, or perhaps more accurately, _especially since_, he couldn't remember what all transpired.

"What happened to your shoulder?" Sam asked quietly breaking the long silence that had suddenly befallen the Impala. He swallowed back the nausea that teased him and threatened to manifest, thankful that Dean hadn't decided to get moving just yet. He wasn't sure his temperamental stomach and nerves could handle the movement.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean sighed, his tone less harsh and more weary.

"Did I…?"

"No, _you_ didn't hurt me."

"It looks like it's bothering you," Sam persisted even though it risked aggravating Dean's pain induced crabbiness. While he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what happened exactly, he _did_ want to know whether it was something he should be concerned about.

"It's fine, Sam," he shrugged both shoulders in an effort to prove his point. His attempt at masking the wince that followed failed and they both knew it. It didn't help that there was an involuntary groan that came with the motion. He gave a resigned sigh, "OK, OK… Let's put it this way, Wall: 1, Dean's shoulder: 0. Happy now? It's no big deal."

Sam suspected he was either flat out lying, or his alleged conflict with the wall was more severe than usual, which was saying a lot. Being tossed into walls _hurt_, they had both been subjected to that sort of thing enough to know, and wasn't that a pathetic testimony to their lives?

"You sure you don't want me to drive the rest of the way?"

Dean nodded, trying to reel in his irritation at the onslaught of the mother-henning questions that Sam had been suppressing and was now releasing at once. "Really, we're almost there. There's no point because I'm _fine_. I wasn't the one chauffeuring a demon all week. You're exhausted and you look like crap I don't think you driving is a very good idea."

"Yeah well I wasn't the one who fell asleep"—_passed out—_"behind the wheel," Sam retorted sardonically, failing at hiding the concern in his voice just as badly as Dean was at hiding his pain.

"I did not," Dean denied.

"So what was that then?"

Dean hesitated, opening his jaw to speak, and then shutting it again, obviously at a loss for an explanation or retort. "Bitch," he finally muttered.

Sam grinned meekly, that one word making him feel a little better, though not enough to free him from the horrid aftereffects of Meg's vile presence in his body, nor was it enough to relieve him of his guilt but it was enough to lift his mood enough to reply, "Jerk."

Dean smirked, "OK, fine. But I think I'm good to go on now. Just needed a little break I guess."

It was when Dean started the engine again that the nausea finally reached it's crescendo and Sam gulped, "Wait," he grunted, throwing open the passenger door.

"Sam?" the worry in Dean's voice came through loud and clear and as Sam emptied his restless stomach of its contents he could feel his brother rub circles in his back. After a moment, as Sam continued to heave, Dean gave him a gentle pat and took the keys, climbed out of the car and grabbed something out of the back seat. The next thing Sam knew Dean was outside, standing in the ditch, one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other holding a bottle of water and resting on Sam's knee. He was standing clear of the vomit, but close enough to be a comfort.

When Sam was done he wearily leaned against the seat as Dean handed him the water and a small, white hand towel that he pilfered from a hotel somewhere. Sam put the water to his lips and rinsed his mouth and spit, successfully rinsing the acrid flavor of his vomit, but to his despair not the distinct, vile and revolting sulfuric taste of Meg. This caused him to dry heave a few more times, but he was clearly running on empty now. He swiped the towel across his mouth, and took another gulp of water, swished the liquid around and spit again.

"You OK?" Dean asked gently as Sam let his head fall back to rest in his seat, panting slightly as he fought to catch his breath.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, "Yeah. I think I needed that."

"Need some Gravol?"

Sam shook his head but then thought about it a second and nodded, "Yeah."

Dean patted his knee and rose to his feet. He swayed precariously a moment once he was vertical but grabbed hold of the open passenger door (with his right hand, Sam noted, even though from Dean's position it made more sense to use his left), steadying himself before heading for the trunk for the first aid kit. They ate at enough questionable restaurants during their travels to know that keeping the anti-nausea medication was a must.

Though bleary and watery eyes Sam noticed the dizzy spell that had momentarily struck his brother but still felt too awful to dwell on it. He'd just have to keep an eye on his brother and make sure Dean wasn't merely downplaying his injuries and hiding something more severe. He dry heaved a couple of times more and then rinsed his mouth one more time before Dean came back with the Gravol. He took the little pill gratefully and nodded to Dean, silently communicating that he was starting to feel better, even though he wasn't, not really. The nausea might've subsided, but he still tingled with the leftover taste and smell and sensation of Meg violating his body and taking him for a ride, making him kill someone and hurt his brother. He suspected _that _was going to stay with him for some time.

"And you wanted to drive," Dean shook his head, snorting incredulously as he gently mocked him. He left Sam's side and as Dean climbed into the driver's seat Sam closed his door. Dean watched Sam for a second, his green eyes wide and earnest, "You sure you're OK? I don't want you puking in my car."

"Yeah, I feel better now that I let it all out," Sam nodded, frowning at the fact that Dean seemed to be paler than he was before Sam got sick, and there was something else in his ashen and bruised complexion that he couldn't quite put his finger on and that bothered Sam. "You?"

"Just peachy," Dean grinned, or was that a grimace? "Take it easy Sam. I swear we'll be there soon and then you can get some rest. Goodness knows you need it, dude."

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, keeping them closed as Dean started the engine and drove off. It helped to keep the lingering nausea at bay. By the time they reached the desolate hotel, he was deep in a restless slumber.

TBC

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A/N As always, please let me know what you think good or bad, I crave criticism/feedback like a drug and I need my fix dang nab it! Next chapter should be up by Thursday if my internet chooses to behave itself. It's very random when it comes to deciding whether it wants to work or not. :(


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Wow, I am overwhelmed by the response this is getting. I was hoping for maybe five comments or so, so needless to say I was shocked when I saw how many reviews and alerts I got. I just have to say, thank you so, so very much! You all made my day! With all the unwanted drama in my life right now well…y'all are a ray of sunshine. Honestly, you have no idea how much joy each and every comment brought me. I'm sorry I didn't get this up by Thursday like I promised. I hope you can forgive me.

Anyway, here's the next chapter. I'm not too crazy about the second half, and I almost cut it out completely but I decided against it. Still not sure if leaving it in was a good idea or not. I guess we'll see. Well without further ado, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Two**

"Hey Sam! Wake up, dude, we're here! Come on and move your lazy ass," Dean spoke with far less gusto than usual. He sounded far too weary and downtrodden to have any real energy to his voice, but as Sam startled awake, he could tell Dean was giving an honest effort at sounding like he was all right.

Sam glanced around and with more effort than it should take, climbed out of the Impala, noting how isolated the motel was located. It looked like it was just off the highway, with only a desolate truck stop diner and gas station nearby. That was all they really needed for the night, but Sam had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach when he scanned the horizon and saw no orange glow of a nearby town or city, and it looked like they were the only guests.

"Where's here? Limbo?"

"Funny," Dean chided, "Actually I'm not sure where we are, but at least it's a good place to hole up for the night." He patted Sam's back, "Come on, grab your stuff."

Sam couldn't explain the extreme uneasiness he felt at how far from any real civilization they were. It was only for the night, but what if… Sam couldn't finish his thought, nor could he shake the sense of foreboding. When he looked back at Dean as he turned and headed into the motel room, staggering unsteadily, with a slight limp to his gait, and holding his left arm close to his chest, that sense of dread only intensified.

Dean paused at the threshold of the motel room, and leaned against the door, "Well, you coming or not?"

"You know," Sam said, his voice a little raw, "all we need is that creepy house on a hill nearby and I'd think we were staying at the Bates Motel."

"Yeah, I guess it does have that sort of feel to it," Dean chuckled half-heartedly, "Don't worry though, the motel clerk reminds me far more of Archie Bunker than Norman Bates."

Sam grabbed his duffel from the trunk and followed Dean inside, noticing that Dean had already take his stuff inside while Sam was still sleeping in the car. Sam bet that Dean brought his stuff in before waking Sam so Sam couldn't see how much effort it undoubtedly took. He wouldn't put it past Dean to be sneaky like that.

The room was clean, simple and generic, and looked like it hadn't been renovated since the seventies, but the only thing Sam cared about was the fact that there were two beds and a shower.

"You want dibs on the shower?" Dean asked, flopping down on his bed, the bed by the door, as _always_. He rested on his back and draped his right arm over his eyes, looking pale and completely drained. In the light of the motel room, Sam could see a dark stain on the left shoulder of his jacket that he didn't notice before.

_Collision with a wall my ass, you liar. What did I do to you Dean?_

"Sure," Sam nodded. He gave Dean a pointed look, studying him for a second, hating how white his complexion was, accentuating his bruises and causing his freckles to stand out. And he wasn't certain, but it looked like Dean was shivering slightly. He took a step towards Dean, suddenly seized with a nagging urge to feel his forehead.

Even though Dean couldn't see him, with his arm covering his eyes, when Sam took another step forward Dean said, without looking at him, "Dude, I'm fine, just hurry up and take your shower so I can take mine."

With a sigh, Sam acquiesced. He grabbed a fresh change of clothes, the first aid kit that Dean brought in, and disappeared into the bathroom. He checked the dressings on the burn on his arm and was glad to see that Bobby had cleaned and bandaged it well and it was already beginning to heal nicely with no sign of infection though it was still undoubtedly going to leave an ugly scar. He covered the wound again, and stepped into the shower.

As soon as the hot water hit his back Sam started to shake and suddenly he was overwhelmed by everything that had happened since Meg entered him in West Texas. This was what he had been waiting for ever since she left his body—this shower, this chance to become clean.

Tears fell from his eyes and he opened his mouth and let the water rush into his mouth in an attempt to get rid of that foul, putrid taste. He grabbed the soap and began to desperately scrub away at his skin, shivering and shaking and sinking to his knees, and he cried out in despair because he could still feel her, he could still feel her presence and the blood on his hands and it wasn't coming off, even though he was on the verge of rubbing his skin raw.

Images of Steve Wandell flashed behind his eyes as he tried to scrub away Meg, and the memories, the guilt and the blood. And his guilt-ridden memories replayed the scene of Dean collapsing on the floor after Sam knocked him out and then again after Meg left his body. The sight of his brother on the floor, partially leaning against the wall, covered in blood and bruises, grunting in pain and then knowing Sam was the cause yet not knowing the extent of his injuries…

He slid down the wall of the shower until he was at his knees, and the water hit his back. He sobbed uncontrollably, vaguely aware that he was using up all the hot water and despite being lost in his own despair as he tried in vain to get clean, he wondered how Dean was faring, and was glad that he wasn't knocking on the door checking on him or telling him to hurry up and save some hot water for him.

Still feeling unclean and violated Sam finally shut off the water as it began to cool. He drew in a shaky breath and wiped his eyes, taking his time at getting dry and dressed. He rinsed his mouth again, brushed his teeth and rinsed again with Listerine more times than necessary and could still taste Meg's vile essence. Lastly he redressed the bandage on his arm and took a couple of Tylenol for the pain.

When he finally emerged, he fully expected Dean to berate him for taking his time, but it looked like Dean had fallen asleep waiting for Sam to finish. He had stripped down to his boxers and wore a plain black t-shirt and was lying on his back, partially covered in blankets. His left hand was draped limply across his abdomen and his right was clenched in a fist, clutching the sheets. He was far too pale for Sam's liking, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face. With a shaky hand he reached out to touch his forehead, but Dean moaned and opened his eyes, causing Sam to hesitantly take a step back.

"Uh, shower's free."

"I'll shower in the morning," Dean mumbled hoarsely, barely audible. Barely conscious he shivered and reached for his blanket, groaning softly.

"Probably a good idea, I used up all the hot water," Sam shrugged with a feigned smirk.

Dean rolled his eyes weakly, giving a small grin. "Figured you might've, bitch," he murmured softly as his eyes drifted shut again.

Sam huffed affectionately, "You're such a jerk." He hesitantly reached out to feel his forehead, but withdrew his hand as though he had no right to touch him. And maybe he did have no right. He had hurt him after all. It was his fault Dean looked so unnaturally fragile.

He tried to deny it but the truth was that he was afraid but he had no idea why because the fear was so strong and irrational. It made no sense. Maybe it was because he was afraid he'd hurt him further because he could still feel and smell and taste all that was Meg which vaguely made him wonder if she really left, if a part of her was still with him, or maybe her presence in his body left a mark so powerful that that might be what it took for him to turn darkside. Or perhaps he was afraid that Dean really was in bad shape because of him, and the mere act of touching his forehead would make the severity of his condition real.

Sam stood in the space between the beds, watching his brother sleep wondering what to do. He was swaying as he stood, his body trembling slightly and aching, his eyes growing heavy with every passing moment of indecision.

Reluctantly he climbed into his bed, his heart, mind and soul heavy with pure exhaustion. He was concerned about Dean, but in the end as much as he hated to admit it, the exhaustion won out. Sam was about to fall over and pass out so he would be of no use to Dean anyway if Dean needed him, not until he got some sleep. Dean was obviously not fine, but if he were really in as bad of shape as Sam feared he might be, surely Dean would've said something. He was stubborn, but not stupid. Maybe all he needed was a good night's sleep, maybe that was all either of them needed. Sam was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. He could check on Dean in the morning.

*-*-*

While Sam was in the shower, Dean was gripped with a sudden wave of pain radiating from his shoulder. If he wasn't already lying down he was pretty sure he would've dropped like a rock from the intensity of the pain. He curled into himself, clutching his shoulder, grimacing at the wetness he felt there. He stifled a cry and concentrated on breathing his way through the wave of agony, thankful that Sam wasn't there when it struck.

He did not want Sam to know he shot him. Sam felt guilty enough as it was and he did not want to add to the unnecessary burden Sam carried. Sam couldn't remember and Dean was not going to tell him unless it became necessary. The only one who knew was Jo, and she already took care of it. She got the bullet out, and while the impromptu surgery hurt like a _bitch_, she cleaned it out and dressed it OK. Sure, she was a butcher but she took care of the wound. Sure, Sam—_Meg—_had to dig his—_her—_thumb into the wound but Dean figured he could take care of it while Sam was in the shower.

It wasn't the first time he had been shot and sadly probably wouldn't be the last either, nor was it the first time Dean had to deal with some nasty wounds on his own. He suffered worse injuries before—it came with the job. A simple bullet wound he could handle by himself so long as there weren't any weird complications.

When the pain subsided enough that he could move again he braced himself and shakily sat up and planted his feet on the floor. He blinked back a wave of dizziness and swallowed back the nausea that the pain brought with it and looked at the dresser where he left the first aid kit, cursing when it wasn't there.

_Sam must've taken it for that burn on his arm_, Dean thought as he took a deep shaky breath and tried to will the pain away, _OK, that's OK. I'll just take care of it when Sam's done. I can wait._

His hands trembling, he reached into his jacket pocket and dry swallowed one of the pain pills that Jo gave him. He had refused to take it earlier, noting that she gave him the good stuff and that it would probably knock him out, and had instead taken the Tylenol that he found in the glove compartment of the car he stole to get to Bobby's. He wasn't going to take anything that would knock him out, not while Sam was still possessed. Besides, there was no need for heavy-duty painkillers when he had a job to do, especially if that job was to save his brother from Meg. When Dean had a job to do, adrenaline was the wonder drug that helped him to forget the pain and gave him the strength he needed to keep going. But now Sam was safe, a little worse for wear, but safe, and Meg was gone…for now. Now he had time to take the rest he so desperately needed.

Unfortunately now that the crisis was over and the adrenaline had subsided, the pain seemed to be coming back tenfold. Injuries tended to do that and so despite the fact it hurt enough to take his breath away and practically bring him to his knees, he saw no cause for real worry just yet. It hurt, but he'd be OK, he just needed monitor the injury and get some much-needed rest. It was no big deal, not like some other injuries he had sustained in the past.

With great care and effort he stripped off his jacket and then, biting back a cry he managed to remove his filthy and bloody shirt. It took a lot out of him and he was glad that Sam seemed to be taking his time because after that he needed to take a minute to rest before changing into a fresh shirt. When he felt ready to move again he pulled out a black shirt from his duffle and held his breath, anticipating more pain. Carefully he slid his injured arm into one sleeve and his right one in the other and using only his right hand he gingerly slid the shirt over his head and put it on. That done he needed to stop once more and blink back a new onslaught of dizziness.

The ring and index fingers of his left hand were numb and the entire arm was starting to tingle slightly. _That can't be good._ He massaged the area around the wound, flexed his hand a few times and focused on keeping his eyes open a little longer. The pain was lessening thanks to the painkillers, but it still hurt like hell. Grunting he leaned forward and reached with his right hand to take off one boot. Every muscle in his body protested the movement and once one boot was off he had to pause again. Sitting back up and breathing heavily he wiped some sweat off his brow.

_This shouldn't be this difficult, _he thought bitterly, wondering for a moment if maybe he should just suck it up and tell Sam. Not only did he feel incredibly shaky and weak from blood loss, but his stomach was churning, his head was reeling and he was quite certain he was developing a fever. Spots clouded his vision and every part of his body was plagued with a deep ache that made it hard to even move and he was afraid that if he moved another muscle he'd lose consciousness.

As quickly as he considered telling Sam, he decided against it. There was no need for panic just yet. Yes he was in pain, but he had been _shot_ for crying out loud so that was to be expected. All his symptoms were understandable and he had been beat to hell so of course he'd be feeling like crap. They were mere side effects to the pain. As for the possible fever? He had been running on empty all week searching for Sam and then trying to figure out what happened, his defenses were down, his immune system weak, a slight fever was perfectly normal. He just needed to be careful, take it easy and keep an eye on he wound. This injury wasn't any different from the ones he had in the past. If it became too much, he'd know. He hadn't reached that point yet. And he wasn't going to.

_Suck it up, its just mind over matter, like always._

Grimacing, he braced himself once again before attempting to remove his other boot, a far more difficult task than it should be and he silently cursed his own weakness. By the time he managed to remove his jeans he was on the verge of passing out.

_Not yet, _he told himself, _can't pass out yet._

As he listened to the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, still in the shower, Dean continued to try and convince himself to stay awake a little longer and wait for Sam to come out so he could go in there and take care of the hole in his shoulder. It was much more difficult to convince his body to remain conscious than it was to convince himself that he was OK, considering everything.

It was somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness that he realized the mistake he made by taking that painkiller of Jo's. It was knocking him out all right. At this rate by the time the bathroom was free he'd be too zonked out to take care of his wound. He should've waited to take it. A stupid oversight on his part, but he could deal with it.

He had cleaned and redressed it once already at Bobby's so worst-case scenario was that he dealt with it when he woke up. It had obviously bled since then, but it couldn't be _that_ bad. Besides he was exhausted and in pain and he wasn't sure if he could keep up the façade for Sam. The mere act of standing up and walking to the bathroom would at the moment be a dead giveaway that he was suffering more than mere cuts and bruises. The ideal would be to wait until Sam was asleep. Maybe after a few hours sleep he could get up and check on the wound and Sam wouldn't be the wiser.

Sleep. Its tempting lull was becoming hard to resist. He rested his head on his pillow and halfheartedly reached for the covers but lacked any strength to actually pull them up and cover him so he gave the sheet a weak tug. The pain slowly began to ebb as the medication took effect and he closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Sam in the bathroom as he finally shut off the water.

Dean had heard some of Sam's sobs and the sound made him sick, and made him even more determined to protect Sam from knowing the full extent of his injuries. He couldn't imagine what Sam was going through, nor did he want to. He could understand why Sam might feel guilty, but Dean knew he had no reason to. He was possessed; he had literally no control over his actions. If anyone should be feeling guilty it was Dean.

The truth was that he should've known better. He should've protected Sam better, should've taken the precautions to prevent possession long ago, ever since Dad at least. It was stupid that here he was, an experienced hunter, playing a huge part in a lifelong quest to hunt a _demon_ no less, and he had to wait until both Dad and Sam became possessed to do anything about it. His job was Sam, to protect him, to save him… and he failed him by leaving him open to demonic possession and passively allowing it to happen. If Dean just asked Bobby, maybe they could've acquired those charms long before Meg had to come back and take his brother and mess with him and exploit his greatest fear like that. Sam did not deserve to go through that, not at all.

His weary mind brought him back to West Texas, to the night Sam disappeared. He twitched restlessly as he remembered his desperate search, getting Sam's call, and then seeing him covered in blood. Images of discovering Wandell's body, and cleaning up the mess flashed behind his eyes and he felt sick as he recalled with clarity the fear that gripped his heart in that brief moment when he thought Sam had done it on his own free will. He had been terrified that this was what Dad had warned him about.

It was in Steve Wandell's house that Dean learned that his father's final order was the one he could not, would not obey. He was going to save Sam, no matter what the cost because option two was out of the question. He would indeed rather die than kill Sam. He would do whatever it took, come hell or high water he would save him. No matter what Sam might do, no matter how 'dark' he might get, Dean would always stand by him and would never give up trying to save him.

There was nothing more important to Dean than Sam. Protecting him, saving him… it came above all else.

He wasn't sure if he fell asleep or not, or for how long, but at some point his jumbled thoughts and memories faded and he was abruptly aware of the here and now and the pain in his shoulder, the bone deep ache that settled through his body and an oppressive heat that weighed him down, giving him the chills. He groaned softly, somehow feeling worse than he did before.

Vaguely aware that he was being watched, Dean opened his eyes with great effort and saw his brother hovering over him. Damn, he looked so helpless and lost.

"Shower's free," Sam said meekly, looking oddly small and fragile for someone so big and tall.

Too weak to move and too tired to care Dean replied faintly, "I'll shower in the morning." He feebly reached for his covers but quickly gave up and settled into his pillow with a groan.

"Probably a good idea, I used all the hot water," Sam was trying to come off as fine, but Dean knew better. After all, pretending to be fine when you're obviously not was an art that Dean mastered, although from the troubled and concerned look in Sam's eyes, despite the Dean-esque smirk on his face, Dean wondered if he was losing his touch. Dean was feeling worse than before, and Sam could see it. He just hoped Sam couldn't see just how badly he was truly feeling and why.

Keeping up the mutual charade, because he wasn't sure what else to do, Dean gave him a wan smile, rolling his eyes as he mumbled, "Figured you might've, bitch." He was pulled into unconsciousness before he could hear Sam's reply, his injured and fevered body lulling him into oblivion.

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A/N Once again, thank you so much everyone with your wonderful feedback! I hope I can live up to your expectations. As always, please let me know what you think, good or bad.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N I am so sorry that it took so long to update! I have been having a rough time lately in the real world and haven't been doing much writing. I was also having a hard time writing this chapter, I wrote several versions, hating all of them but I really want to get this one done because all of you have been so amazingly wonderful with your kind reviews and alerts and I owe it to you and myself to just get it done. Honestly you all have overwhelmed me, I never thought any of my stories would ever get the kind of response this has. Thank you all so much! I'm sorry I haven't been diligent in replying to reviews, but I want you all to know that every comment means a lot to me. Anyway, I'm not even close to being satisfied with this chapter, but here it is. I hope you like it.

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**Chapter Three**

_He's at Steve Wandell's house, standing over his struggling form, pulling out a knife and sliding it across his throat. He watches the life ebb away from Wandell's eyes. He stands up, stares at him coldly and turns to leave. He catches his reflection in the mirror and Meg stares back at him, smiling._

_Suddenly he's in the motel room, handing Dean a gun. _

_"You know, I've tried so hard to keep you safe," Dean says heartbrokenly._

_"I know," he replies, his lip quivering in feigned fear and sadness. He closes his eyes in anticipation and images flash behind his eyes like photographs._

_Flash._

_A woman at a bar, her back turned._

_Flash._

_The guy at the gas station as he robs him for some menthol cigarettes._

_Flash._

_Bobby, watching him, an unreadable expression on his face as he takes a swig of beer that was contaminated with holy water._

_Flash._

_Dean, lying bloodied against the wall at Bobby's clutching his shoulder, slumping over wearily._

_Flash._

_Jo, tied up and bruised as he taunts, "My daddy shot your daddy in the head."_

_Flash._

_He's back at the hotel, Dean stares at him, conflicted, love and fear for his brother burning brightly in his eyes as he hands the gun back to him, "I can't. I'd rather die."_

_He shakes his head at Dean who is walking away, his back turned, "No, you'll live..."_

_Dean approaches him with concern, eyes wide and bright and full of love._

_Flash._

_"I think you're gonna die Dean, you and every other hunter I can find."_

_Flash._

_His expression, his voice grows cold, "...you'll live to regret this."_

_He raises the gun and strikes, clocking him hard across the temple and watches as he falls, as he goes down, down, down..._

_Splash._

_He's suddenly standing on the edge a pier, looking down into the black murky water below. A cold glint in his eyes as his lip curls into a wicked, satisfied sneer of victory._

Sam opened his eyes, his heart heavy and his mind reeling. He shivered, remembering the dream and trying to piece together what it meant before the images could fade, knowing that it was more than a dream, he was remembering. The memories were vivid yet frustratingly vague. The scent of sulfur filled the air and he sighed. All he could smell was that damn sulfur and the taste... damn, the taste made him want to gag.

He rolled over and looked in the other bed where Dean slept. In the darkness of the room, he couldn't really see his brother, just the dark outline of his body sprawled on the bed, but he could hear his quick and ragged breathing. Dean let out a soft moan that vaguely sounded like he was calling Sam's name and he shifted positions slightly. Sam sat up and turned on the light and looked at him again.

The sudden light in the room caused Sam to recoil and blink, even though the bedside lamp was rather dim. When his eyes quickly adjusted he looked at his brother more closely.

Dean had kicked off the covers in his sleep and somehow managed to tangle the sheets awkwardly around his feet. He was partially on his back and partially on his side, and looked completely miserable.

"What did I do to you?" Sam whispered in lamentation. With all the bruises he was bound to be uncomfortable, but Dean was in genuine pain, even in sleep. Sam blinked heavily, swallowing back another onslaught of nausea and reached forward with the intent of waking Dean up and checking him for hidden injuries but the motion forced his currently sensitive stomach to protest.

The hand that had been reaching for his sleeping brother reached out for the wastebasket under the nightstand between the beds instead. He dry heaved a few times, having emptied his stomach earlier on the side of the road and as much as he tried to swallow back the nausea, his stomach continued to clench and roll mercilessly.

When he was done, Sam was completely spent. He fell into his pillow, gasping to catch his breath, his eyes heavy. He closed his eyes, coughing a few times wanting to check on his brother but lacking the strength to move. Besides, what right did he have to go near Dean, what right did he have to help him when he was the one who hurt him? He could still feel Meg inside him, could still taste and smell and feel the tingle of her evil essence, and in the back of his mind he wondered if she was still there, hiding. What if she only pretended to leave, fooling everyone and was still there waiting for the right moment to strike and use his hand to kill his own brother like she had set out to do in the first place.

Eyes still closed, Sam sighed, relaxing slightly, pure exhaustion threatening to pull him under. _No, got to check on Dean. Stubborn bastard's worse off than he's letting on. _ He tried to push himself up again, force his eyes to open, but his limbs were shaking from exertion, as though he had just collapsed after running a marathon. He certainly felt like he just ran a marathon, and in a way he had. For over a week he had been running on empty, with only the power of a demon to sustain him.

_Just a couple of minutes,_ he thought to himself in exhaustion, as he absently reached to turn off the light and reluctantly settled back into bed, the need for sleep overwhelming. He justified his decision to get a few minutes rest before looking after Dean because Sam could barely keep his eyes open he was so exhausted. If Dean really was worse off than he was willing to admit, it would be better if Sam checked him for injuries with fresh, well rested eyes. Besides, Sam doubted Dean was in serious immediate danger. Dean could look after himself and if he were as bad as Sam had feared, then they'd probably still be at Bobby's and Dean wouldn't have driven as far as he had. Knowing Dean, if he was hiding injuries, he probably already dealt with it at Bobby's so Sam couldn't see why it couldn't wait a little bit longer.

_I'll rest for just a couple of minutes more, then I'll check on Dean. Just a few more minutes..._

*-*-*

It was a sudden sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder that woke him up. Dean opened his eyes, suppressing a cry as his right hand shakily and gingerly clutched the bullet wound. His shirt felt crusty, sticky and damp with dried and congealed and maybe even fresh blood. The wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat and there was a painful, tingling sensation that ran up and down his arm. And the smell... the smell was enough to make him want to hurl. He should've taken care of the wound while he had the chance, he knew that, and now he was paying for it.

_Oh the lengths I go to keep this from Sammy... Dean you idiot._

Biting his lip to keep from crying out he pushed himself up, blinking back the flashes of vertigo, the dark spots that danced in his vision, flashing visibly before his eyes even in the darkness of the room. He only made it halfway to a sitting position before he collapsed and sank back into the bed.

He blinked and swallowed, gasping for breath. His head was swimming and he wasn't sure hed be able to make it to the bathroom to deal with the wound on his own any more. Maybe it was now time to come clean to his brother.

Dean tilted his head to the side and saw his brother sleeping restlessly in the next bed, "Sam..." he whispered, but the word died in his throat, the only sound escaping was a breathy wheeze. He coughed a couple of times, the action jarring his shoulder, forcing his body to tense and press against the bed as he clutched the wound and stifled a shaky whimper. Breathing heavily he waited until he felt he was ready to try moving again.

The problem was, he hurt everywhere, every muscle felt achy and weak, the bruises on his face and body were making themselves known with a vengeance, his head throbbed, he still felt slightly shocky from blood loss, and his shoulder... damn his shoulder hurt like a bitch. If his symptoms weren't any indication, the smell was enough to let Dean know there was an infection forming in the wound, and if he didn't take care of it soon then it could easily become too serious to hide.

"Sammy," he tried again, though the only sound that came out was a pitiful groan.

Sam was tossing and turning in his sleep and at first it seemed like he may have heard him, but it soon became clear that he was in the throes of a nightmare. An understandably bad one at that.

Dean cleared his throat and managed to say with more volume, "Sam!" but the sound was still too weak, and he doubted that it carried over to the other bed. It certainly wasn't enough to reach Sam and pull him free of his restless slumber. Perhaps it was a good thing though that Dean couldn't wake him because if he did, Sam would be released from one nightmare, only to be burdened with another one. There were antibiotics in the first aid kit, maybe... Dean had to take care of this wound on his own. It wouldn't be the first time, nor would it be the last. There was still no need to let Sam know. If he still felt terrible after he managed to get his lazy butt out of bed and re-clean the wound and take some antibiotics, then he'd tell Sam the truth. In the meantime...

Something about seeing his brother suffer in his sleep, haunted by the crimes he did not commit and the fear of becoming someone he wasn't, gave Dean a slight boost in adrenaline. Sam was going through so much and Dean hated the thought of adding to his burden. No, so long as he was able, he'd do anything in his power to share the burden. A part of Dean knew he was being foolish, but protecting Sam was so ingrained into his nature that he just didn't know how he'd tell Sam that he shot and came dangerously close to killing his own brother. Sam felt guilty enough as it was, there was no need to rub it in his face. Not yet and hopefully not ever.

_Yeah, hey Sammy, just so you know when Meg possessed you, you kinda shot me. I nearly drowned and bled to death, but Jo took care of it, so don't worry, except I think you made the wound worse when you stuck your thumb in it and I think it's infected now. Just so you know. _

_Y_eah, _that_ would go over so well. That wouldn't add to Sams guilt and grief at all.

Drawing a deep breath he pushed himself up again and managed to sit up fully. He paused to gather his bearings, giving the room a chance to stop spinning. Shakily he rose to his feet, catching himself by grabbing the nightstand when his knees started to buckle.

Slowly, drunkenly, he made his way to the bathroom, a much more arduous task than it should be, but he made it and Dean figured it was a small victory considering how incredibly terrible he felt. He lowered the toilet seat, grabbed a few towels and sat down. In the small bathroom, the first aid kit and the sink were within reach from where he was sitting which was a huge blessing because Dean knew he wouldn't be able to get up again for a while. It was all he could do to keep from slumping over and passing out as it was.

With great care he took off his t-shirt, wincing as the material stuck to the bandage, causing the gauze to pull slightly on the wound. It was hard to get a good look at the injury from where he was since he wasn't facing any mirror, so he had to tilt his head and crane his neck to see what he was doing and he already felt like he was going a little cross-eyed as he peeled off the bandage, grunting in discomfort as it stuck to the wound, making it bleed some more. He gagged and swallowed back the urge to vomit when the smell intensified and he saw the pale yellow stains mixed with the blood on the gauze.

He worked as quickly as he could at cleaning the wound. It looked like the bleeding had for the most part stopped which was something, but it was the yellow pus and swollen red skin around it that was the real concern. He put one of the hand towels under hot water, getting it as hot as he possibly could and pressed it against the wound, trying to draw out as much of the pus as possible. Then he washed it with alcohol, which caused him to blink back tears as he bit his lip and breathed rapidly through his nose trying to mentally block the pain, but his defenses were down and he was on his last reserves so it was becoming increasingly difficult to do. That done he needed to close his eyes and wait for the room to stop spinning again. He grabbed the counter to hold himself steady and rested his head on his arm, swallowing compulsively as his stomach clenched and he felt the need to vomit.

Once the need to puke eased off and the pain became somewhat tolerable and he felt like he was about ready to get moving again without spewing all over the bathroom floor, he finished up his ministrations, generously slapped on some antibiotic cream and put on a clean bandage. He carefully put his black t-shirt back on, since he lacked the energy to get a clean one and swallowed some painkillers and some antibiotics, hoping that they'd take effect quickly and get his fever down.

From his spot on the toilet seat, he carefully packed up the first aid kit, threw the soiled towels in the cupboard under the sink so Sam wouldn't see them and tossed the dirty bandages in the trash, throwing a wad of toilet paper on top of it to hide the rest of the evidence of his injury and then washed his hands. He took a few deep breaths, bracing himself and concentrated on the task of getting up without passing out. Slowly, he pushed himself up to his feet, grasping the counter for balance.

The whole procedure had been awkward and agonizing but he was glad it was over and that he was able to do it and still remain conscious and without losing the meager contents of his stomach. Sure, he hurt like hell, the room was still spinning, he felt shaky from head to toe and there were still dark flashes that danced in his line of vision, but he was done and now he could go back to bed, back to sleep and get some much needed rest.

_See, nothing to it,_ he thought, trying to convince himself that he wasn't being a total idiot for keeping his injuries quiet, as he shuffled drunkenly to the bathroom door, opened it and switched off the light, _Sam doesn't need to find out. Not like this is the worst injury I had to deal with on my own. I can handle this just fi—_

He barely made it two steps out of the bathroom before the world spun on its axis, his knees folded and he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor.

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A/N Thanks for reading, and once again please leave a review, it feeds the muse and makes me so happy!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay, life has taken so many undesirable twists and turns. Not only had I been forced to type one-handed after hurting my arm, (hence the delay) but life in general seems determined to bring me down as it sometimes does. As the saying goes, "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." On the plus side, in less than a week I'll be in Vancouver at the Supernatural convention! Yay! If anyone else is going and would like to say hi, send me a PM and we can arrange to meet. It'd be nice to meet some of you peeps in person if possible.

Anyway, without further ado, here's the next chapter!

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**Chapter Four**

Confusion rattled his brain as his father's voice echoed in his mind, _If you can't save him, you're going to have to kill him._ But it was overlapped by Sam begging Dean to kill him and an image appeared through the wall of flames that surrounded him. Sam stood in front of him, aiming his gun at him, a wicked smirk on his face, his eyes black as coal, his thumb pressing deep into his shoulder and that image was overlapped another one of Sam looking hurt and betrayed, _Why didn't you save me?_ as their father hovered over him, _I gave you one job, one. And you couldn't even do that right._

A loud, sudden report of a gunshot sliced through his consciousness and he opened his eyes only to find himself lying awkwardly on the floor.

He blinked sluggishly, unsure of what was real. He tried to reach through the sounds and images that assaulted his psyche, the ones that lingered even as he began his ascent into semi-awareness. He tried to push his way through the fever-induced haze as the fire raging in his head reached for him, determined to pull him back into the darkness.

He could still hear the distant sound of his father yelling at him, scolding him for not doing his job and protecting Sammy as Sam screamed at him to kill him. Their voices were a hollow, distant cacophony of sound and fury and he blinked again, trying to drown them out as he tried to pinpoint was wrong with this picture.

Dean shook his head and groaned—nothing made much sense. He couldn't quite remember…he couldn't quite… it was there, he knew it was there but his mind couldn't quite reach it… whatever _it_ was.

"Sam?" he called out, or at least he thought he called out but to his own ears it sounded like nothing more that a faint hiss. One thing in his addled brain made sense and that brought him back to his father's final words, of the first and last important task his father ever gave him. _Watch out for Sam. Save Sam, protect Sam. (Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don't look back). If you can't you're going to have to kill him._

Sam needed Dean to be strong, protect him and save him from the darkness even if it meant throwing himself into the flames instead. Keeping Sam safe, protecting him from the dark was the most important order Dad ever gave him, the one order Dad never needed to give because to Dean it was simply a second nature, like breathing

He squinted his eyes shut and behind his eyes he saw Sam, his eyes black as night, behind him stood his father, his eyes yellow, like an infection.

_You're worthless. You couldn't save your dad, and deep down, you know you can't save your brother. (They don't need you like you need them.) They'd be better off without you._

"No," he murmured, too weak to raise his voice to match his despair.

Pain flared in his shoulder, pulling him back into reality and when he opened his eyes he was back on the floor, still lying in the same awkward position he landed in when he first passed out. _They'd be better off without you…_ echoed in his head a moment before it faded, along with all the other images and sounds that just a second ago had been so prominent and had now become the vague and distant memory of a bad dream and only the pain and the emotions remained.

Hand weakly reaching for his wounded shoulder in a futile effort to ease the pain, Dean tried to suppress the fear, the hurt, the grief so he could sort out his jumbled thoughts and figure out why the place seemed to be on fire despite the lack of flames or smoke—it sure felt like there was a fire.

"Sammy?" he grunted, wondering if he was OK. Even conscious, his fevered mind made it unclear of whether Sam was freed of the demon Meg, or if the memory of the black smoke erupting from his little brother's mouth was just a dream of wishful thinking.

He was fairly certain Sam was no longer possessed, but he had to be sure. Clarity came in broken fragments, and that, along with the haze of his climbing fever left him confused. Meg had him fooled once, what was to stop her from pulling the same trick? No he was quite certain that she was gone, he remembered the pure pain and guilt in Sam's eyes that prompted him to hide his bullet wound. Couldn't fake that lost puppy look that Sammy had perfected. But on the other hand, Meg managed to fake it quite convincingly before…

Using the wall for leverage he slowly, gingerly pushed himself to his feet… or at least he tried to. He almost made it back up all the way before the rising heat and the darkness reached up and grabbed him and he plummeted into oblivion once again, his body sliding slowly back down the wall to the floor.

-

Sam woke up with a gasp. He jackknifed into a sitting position before falling back into his pillow and curling into himself in pain. Not physical pain, though his head ached and the burn on his arm hurt, this pain was deep, emotional, hard to describe, full of guilt, frustration and hopelessness.

The nightmare had shaken him deeply as memories of his possession continued to resurface, flashing through his dreams like a badly edited movie. Scenes cut too short, and too jumbled to make any sense. They left him feeling dizzy, nauseous, like he was on a spinning carnival ride and he wanted to get off, but it just kept spinning and spinning, and images of the past week's events kept flashing and replaying over and over, creating a scrambled jigsaw puzzle of memories with too many of the pieces missing.

He shivered in his blankets, gagging at the scent of sulfur tainting the air. Sulfur overpowered his senses, making him choke and gag and curl further into himself, his body tensing. He could feel tears in his eyes, and they burned. He let out an involuntary sob, and hoped that Dean was still sound asleep so he wouldn't hear him.

To make sure he wasn't waking his brother, Sam turned his head in Dean's direction and was startled to find the bed was empty.

"Dean?" he whispered hoarsely, wiping away at his eyes.

Sam glanced in the direction of the bathroom, but saw no glow of the light. For a fleeting moment Sam wondered if Dean left him because of what he did while possessed before brushing off the absurd notion. Dean had proven that he'd never leave Sam in the dead of night without a word no matter what Sam did. It wasn't like him to just up and leave. Dean had the love and loyalty of a golden retriever, he'd never walk out on Sam.

_That's where we're so different._

Guiltily he thought about all the times he walked out on Dean just because he was angry, or disagreed with him, or things just plain weren't going his way. Sam was perpetually the prodigal brother, taking off when things became too difficult or when he wanted something different, something better. He wondered what went through Dean's head the night Meg first possessed Sam and he left.

_Probably thought I left because I wanted to. Probably thought I was just being my typical run-away-when-things-get-bad self._

There was no time to wallow in guilt and self-pity, and Sam shook the thoughts from his head. Something was wrong. He knew it deep in his gut that something was wrong. Dean wasn't in bed, but he hadn't left, he wouldn't, not on his own volition.

"Dean?" he called, louder this time as he flipped on the lamp, wincing at the sudden intrusion of the light. His stomach muscles clenched with nausea, but Sam swallowed hard a few times, clutching his stomach with one hand and covering his mouth with the other and ignored it.

Maybe Dean couldn't sleep and went to get breakfast. It was possible, dawn had broken so it was possible. Except Dean was in bad shape, he had passed out behind the wheel, too exhausted to function…

No, something was definitely wrong.

Swallowing back the fear that sent his insides churning Sam tried not to think about all the horrible scenarios that rushed through his head, meshing with the vague memories of the past week. Meg was still out there… what if she came back and did something to him? _What if she never left?_ As the horrible thought crossed his mind, not for the first time, he realized his hands were shaking and his eyes moved to study them in morbid fascination. He half expected to see his brother's blood staining his fingers. They looked clean, but he could still feel the blood, taste the sulfur... Pressing his hands against his thighs to ease the tremors, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and willed the thoughts away. He was just tired, paranoid. Meg was gone from his body, his exhausted mind was just playing tricks on him.

Still didn't change the fact that there was something wrong. He just knew it deep in his gut that Dean needed help.

He climbed out of bed and looked around the corner towards the bathroom and found him on the floor, leaning against the wall, his head bowed, a new trail of drying blood forming a line down his forehead and along his cheek, his face ghastly pale, arms limply by his side.

"Dean!" Sam practically fell down beside him, he reached out to touch him, hesitating for a moment, but he swallowed back the guilt and the sulfur tasting bile and lightly tapped his cheek. He took a sharp intake of breath at the heat radiating from his brother's skin, "Dean, come on, hey… hey come on," he tapped him again, "wake up! Damn it, you're burning up… come on Dean..."

When Dean didn't respond or give any indication of waking, Sam innocently grabbed his left shoulder and shook him, "Dean!"

At that contact Dean's eyes snapped open and he took one look at Sam and flinched, scooting away from him in a panic, "No, get away from me!" His voice was alarmingly weak and his words were so slurred Sam could barely understand him.

"Dean, it's me, Sam," he pleaded gently, his sincere gaze meeting Dean's panicked, glossy, fever-bright jade eyes. "Trust me."

"N-no, Sam! G-get away!" Dean hissed pitifully, scooting further away, lashing out blindly with his right arm until his left arm gave way under his weight and he collapsed, falling back into unconsciousness.

Sam froze for a moment in shock. He reached for Dean again, slowly, cautiously, feeling sick to know that Dean's terror was directed at him. Because Sam hurt him. Maybe he didn't hurt Dean on purpose, maybe it wasn't by his own will, but still, Sam was the one who let himself get possessed, Sam was the one Dean saw when he did all those things.

His hand hovered over Dean's motionless form, and that was when he saw it, the blood on his hand. There wasn't a lot of blood, just a faint smear but it made Sam's eyes widen in panic. It didn't register the first time around, but when he gently touched Dean's shoulder again, the shirt felt damp and sticky with drying blood, blood that was almost invisible against Dean's black shirt. Dean flinched at the contact, sagging further to the floor, groaning softly.

"What did I do to you?" Sam whispered. He placed his hand on Dean's forehead, wiping away some of the sweat and blood, biting his lip at the heat. He wondered where the new trail of blood came from but as he rose to his feet he saw dark red traces on the doorframe and put two and two together. Dean must've hit his head on his way down to the floor. But what was he doing out of bed if he was hurt so bad? Why didn't he tell Sam how badly he was hurt? _ Because he can't trust you after what you did, Sam._ Worst of all, how did Sam manage to sleep through it all? How could he have missed it?

_But I didn't miss it, I knew he was hurt… Why didn't I do anything?_

Sam ignored the queasiness in his stomach, the persistent irritation and itch on his skin and the taste and smell of sulfur that was bound to drive him mad and stumbled into the bathroom. His own discomfort was the reason why he turned a blind eye to Dean's pain, and he deserved to feel the way he did. He was the reason Dean was in pain in the first place.

_Stop it Sam,_ he inwardly scolded himself as he grabbed a cloth and got it wet with cool water, _Dean now, guilt later._

Kneeling beside his brother he cupped Dean's burning cheek into his palm, tilting his head and wiping his face with the cloth, "Dean, hey. Come on man, open your eyes, please."

Dean groaned under his touch, his eyes fluttered for a moment before his head lolled back against the wall.

"Dean!" he tapped his cheek and nudged his shoulder—his uninjured one this time—and continued to run the damp cloth over his face and neck, attempting to bring his temperature down and washing away the sweat and the blood.

"S-sam?" came the barely audible whisper.

"Yeah man, it's me," Sam smiled gently as he watched his brother struggle to pry his eyes open, "Open your eyes."

"You sure it's you?" Dean moaned, batting away weakly at the cloth, a pained grimace on his face.

"Of course it's me you jerk," Sam's voice broke on the last word, hating that Dean felt the need to ask that.

The response that followed was familiar, automatic and eased some of the tension by a small fraction. "B-bitch," Dean's lips curled into a weak grin and his glossy eyes opened as he once again batted Sam's hand away. He glanced around in confusion, "What are we doing on the floor?"

"You tell me," Sam frowned, a hint of anger in his voice, "I just woke up and saw you lying unconscious and you're burning up. What's going on Dean? What's wrong with you? What did I do to you?"

Dean rested his head against the wall and sighed weakly, "You didn't do anything, Sam."

"Oh so those bruises? Those cuts? That wound on your shoulder? They just magically appear or something?" Sam hissed.

"It wasn't you, it was Meg," Dean pushed Sam away and tried to push himself up, "It wasn't you. Besides, I-I'm fine."

"The hell you are," Sam muttered, draping Dean's uninjured arm over his shoulder and helping Dean to his feet. Dean's left arm snaked around his middle and he doubled over, his knees buckling. "Whoa," Sam lurched to catch his brother before he could face plant on the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. As it was Sam barely had the strength at the moment to support his brother and he almost ended up dropping him and winding up on the floor himself. With a grunt he managed to get a better grip on his injured brother and growled sarcastically, "Oh yeah Dean, you're totally fine. What am I so worried about?"

"See?" Dean tried to smirk, but there was too much pain in his eyes, too much weakness, too much weariness for it to be convincing.

"Dean!"

"Just need some rest," Dean mumbled, his head lolling forward, his voice fading. He breathed deeply through his nose and feebly pushed Sam away, "I'm good." To prove his point he shuffled drunkenly to his bed, flopped down, winced and gingerly rested his head on the pillow, "I'll feel better in…" he paused to hiss in pain, "in the morning."

"No, Dean you're hurt, you're burning up. A few minutes ago you were delirious after apparently passing out on the floor. You're _not _fine. Please, just tell me what's wrong, tell me what I—"

"—Meg," Dean interjected.

"—did to you!"

"Nothing," Dean murmured softly his eyes sliding shut, "just knocked me around a bit, nothing I can't handle."

"Damn it, why do you have to be such a stubborn ass? Please, don't lie to me, Dean, this is serious!"

Wearily Dean opened his eyes, they looked greener than usual, accentuated by the red rimming his eyes and the dark smudges underneath. He looked at Sam, his eyes searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to have found it and he whispered, "I'm OK Sam. I'll be all right."

_You don't trust me, do you?_ Misinterpreting Dean's real motives for downplaying his injury to beyond the point of stupid recklessness, Sam heaved a sigh, his shoulders sagging in defeat and exhaustion. He blinked, feeling a teardrop fall from between his eyelids and then opened them again, his eyes moving up to the ceiling, his hand running over his face in guilt and worry. _You don't trust me. Can't say I blame you..._

"You on the other hand look like shit," Dean continued, ignoring Sam as he scoffed and rolled his eyes at the statement, giving him an incredulous look, "Go back to sleep Sam, you're exhausted. It's been a trying week, w-we just need… just need…" his eyebrows pulled together as his voice faded and he grimaced. He blinked a couple of times and stated, "We just need some rest."

Sam watched Dean struggle to stay conscious, watched his tired eyes blink sluggishly as his lips curled into a weak smirk, an attempt to reassure Sam that was failing miserably. Sam sighed, shaking his head, "Dean—" Sam hesitated, there was no reasoning with Dean. He could argue until they were both old and grey and Dean would still refuse help and deny injury. He had always been like that, but this stubborn determination to pretend nothing was seriously wrong was getting out of hand. Even Dean knew when to draw the line at such stupidity.

_If you'd just trust me…_

"Can we at least do something about your fever?"

"Already took care of it… took some of the g-good stuff, don't worry…" Dean murmured faintly, "just waiting for it to kick in…" as he spoke his voce faded into nothingness as the pull of sleep claimed him once more.

Sam watched him for the longest time, rooted in place unable to move. Unable to shake the growing panic that came from knowing that his brother was suffering because of him.

It was a faint groan coming from his wounded brother and the line of pain and discomfort on his forehead that got Sam moving again. His hand brushed against Dean's sweaty forehead and he was relieved to feel that he was slightly cooler than he was when Sam first found him on the floor, though not by much. He just wished they had a thermometer so he could know for sure. They used to have one, a good one but it disappeared from the first aid kit, having been accidentally left behind somehow in a nameless hotel in a forgotten town or city.

Hurrying to the bathroom to refresh the damp cloth he used to wash his brother's face, Sam returned and draped it over Dean's forehead. Dean shivered and groaned at his touch but he didn't wake. Sam rested his hand against the Dean's cheek for a moment, holding that position before he reluctantly withdrew his hand.

He needed to know exactly what was wrong if he was going to help Dean get well. He had a vague idea, the fever and the way Dean favored his left shoulder being his biggest clues, but he still couldn't remember what he did, what kind of injury they were dealing with, or if the mysterious shoulder injury was even his biggest concern. Dean was beaten to hell, just about anything could have given him this fever that had his brother truly sidelined.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of just cutting off Dean's shirt and seeing for himself, and under any other circumstances he would do just that without hesitation. But the sulfuric guilt that still weighed heavily on him made him wonder what right he had to do that. It was never an issue before but for some reason Sam felt as though doing so would be some sort of an unforgivable violation. Besides, if Dean woke up… by getting possessed and hurting him, Sam believed he inadvertently broken his trust, he didn't want to shatter it completely especially since that trust had already been shaken when Sam took off after learning what Dad told Dean just before he died.

Dean seemed to be stable for now, so Sam decided to wait. He said he took care of it, and Sam believed him. His brother was stubborn, but not _entirely_ stupid. So for now he'd watch and wait. If he started to get worse, or if there was no change, Sam would do what had to do.

Silently cursing his brother's stubborn determination to leave Sam in the dark, Sam sat down on his bed and watched his brother sleep, keeping vigil as he wracked his brain to try and piece together his scattered memories. If Dean wasn't going to tell him what happened, then Sam was just going to have to remember it himself.

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A/N Thanks for reading, now please let me know what you think! I have to say the response that this story is receiving has blown me away! I never expected this to get as many reviews as it has! They all mean so much to me, and has made my muse so very happy, and hungry for more, so please, keep it coming! Your feedback helps me improve as a writer!


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